


The Final Chapter

by Goldy



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t mean to show up so late in her timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Chapter

Rose’s boots crunch over dead leaves as she approaches the gravestone. Panting slightly, she stops and takes a breath. Wind whistles through the quiet cemetery, rustling her hair and chilling her to the bone. She shivers and the grip on her cane tightens. 

She gets colder every day now. 

Leaning her weight on the cane, her gaze lingers on the gravestone. It’s grey and white, cut from the best marble in London. As her gaze passes over the inscription, a lump gathers in her throat. Her eyes are good for her age, her GP says, and she still passes her mandatory driving exam every year. But she doesn’t need her eyesight to know exactly what the inscription says.

_The Doctor  
b. a long time ago  
d. 2072_

Her throat closes and tears momentarily blur her vision. In one hand she clutches a bouquet of flowers, which she picked up from the corner store only an hour ago. All on her own. She used to be able to run marathons ahead of alien threats. Now walking a block feels like a treasured victory.

She turns away from the gravestone and finds that her hands are shaking. One finger is bleeding, pricked from one of the stems. She stares at the blood for a moment, feeling frail and cold and tired. 

Summoning her strength, she strains forward, her back and lungs protesting. Tears of frustration prick her eyes. All she wants to do is leave some flowers at her husband’s grave. It’s the least—the _only_ thing she can still do for him—and her failing body won’t let her.

 _I wish you’d come back_ , she thinks at him, hard, as one tear trickles down her cheek. As if in response, the wind picks up again, rustling through the trees. Another tear falls. 

She pulls her sweater tighter across her chest and manages one, wan smile. Well, it certainly won’t be long for her now. Not in the state she’s in.

And in the meantime, she wants to leave him flowers. That’s all. After all those years she spent helping to save the universe and protect the world, she thinks she deserves that. 

Balancing on her cane, she leans forward again, breath becoming shallower with the effort. 

Then, light as a feather, there’s a touch on her back, and a soft voice in her ear, “Let me help you with that.”

Before Rose can protest, the man’s arm goes around her back and together they crouch down. He doesn’t say anything as she sets the flowers in front of the gravestone. Rose is grateful for the silence—she reaches out and touches the inscription, fingers tracing his name. 

Tears slip silently down her cheeks. The silence stretches out and finally she whispers, “I miss you.” Her voice is cracked and dry. The mysterious stranger says nothing and after a long moment, Rose says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the man responds, his voice just as low. 

He helps her back to her feet, arm steady and secure around her waist. Then, straightening, he makes sure she’s holding securely to her cane and says, “There’s a bench over there. You need to rest.”

He has a kind voice, Rose notes, and so she gives a nod of assent. He helps her over to the bench, arm still around her waist, and she glances over her shoulder, back at the Doctor’s grave. The flowers are already spilling out of the bouquet, windswept petals blowing across the graveyard. 

She doesn’t know why the image breaks her heart so much. 

Finally they reach the bench. She nearly collapses into it, shaking and cold and tired. Soon she won’t have enough strength left for even these trips anymore. 

She doesn’t like to think of what will become of her when that happens. 

She rests her cane against the bench and then wraps her arms around her middle, turning to look for the first time at her mysterious stranger. He’s young—young enough to be her grandson—and he’s got dark floppy hair and a tweed jacket. His eyes, though. His eyes look old and sad and deeply serious. 

Her breath hitches in her chest. There’s something so undeniably familiar about him, if only she could just place him.... 

He shifts closer to her and then places one hand over hers. His hands are cold, but smooth and youthful and she fights the urge to draw her own hand back. Her skin must feel so dry and brittle to him.

“When did it happen?” says the man gently. 

“A few months ago,” she says, and the tears come again. It’s not good for her at her advanced age to keep crying like this. She needs a hobby, she thinks. Maybe she should adopt a cat or take up advising Torchwood’s Dangerous Aliens and Artefacts Department. They would whisper about her—that crazy widowed cat lady who just can’t accept that her time is up and done. 

“I’m sorry,” says the man. And he _does_ look sorry.

For some reason, she continues. “It was quick,” she says. “He didn’t suffer. Not right until the end, anyway.” She almost smiles. “And I’m glad ‘cos I’m not sure I would have been able to bear it, him hooked up to machines and stuck in a hospital. He wouldn’t have stood for it either. Tony, though—that’s my brother—he says that this is why I can’t move on. We never got a chance to say goodbye.” Her voice quiets, “But we did. The last ten years... we both knew it was coming. And all we could do was make the best of it.”

She bows her head, almost forgetting how chilled she is as she momentarily gets swept up in memories. China and Cuba and Africa—and then, finally, when it got too hard to keep going, back to their London flat. At least they still had each other. That was the only thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She hadn’t even talked this much about the Doctor to Tony. 

“I don’t mind,” says the man.

“We burned the body,” Rose continues haltingly. “He told me once that’s what his people did in his... culture.” She pauses. “But I couldn’t let him go. I buried some of the ashes here so that he could still be remembered.” Her chest hitches. “It sounds stupid.”

“It sounds human,” says the man. He pats her hand and then says, “I meant to come earlier.”

The sentence rocks her to the core. She slowly turns her gaze up to look at him. The kooky fashion sense (the elbow patches and the bow-tie and floppy hair) and old eyes hit her at once. After forty-five years together, she knows him well—knows the tones of his voice, the way his eyes look when he’s sad, and the way he talks and carries himself. 

Things like that don’t just change, not even when he regenerates. 

Swallowing hard, she whispers, “Doctor?”

He lets go of her hand and she sucks in a breath and then another. Her head feels light and her heart pounds wildly in her chest. For a second she really thinks she might drop dead right there on the spot. 

But then the moment passes and the Doctor speaks, “There was a way through and I didn’t stop to think—I just went.” He pauses. “I wanted to see how you were getting on.” He slaps a frustrated hand against his forehead. “I didn’t mean to come this late in your timeline.”

Rose looks down at her shrivelled hands and the cane resting up against the bench. She’s suddenly embarrassed at the idea of him seeing her like this—all shrivelled up like a prune, her hair thin and grey, and with a mouthful of missing teeth. 

This must be his worst nightmare.

“I’m a mistake. _Of course_ ,” she says and she can’t quite hide the hurt in her voice. “Why else would you come now?”

He sighs, a heavy and rattling sound. And then he turns to her, his eyes suspiciously bright. He doesn’t try to deny her words, only says, “Let me help you home.”

***

The flat is large and bright, a far cry from the one they lived in right after Bad Wolf Bay. They liked having the space even though they both knew it would never be quite the same as the TARDIS. And god knows Pete and Jackie had left them enough money for a little luxury. 

Now, though... now the flat feels empty and oppressive. Dust builds in corners that she doesn’t have the energy to clean. The Doctor’s half-finished science “projects” are littered in every room and she doesn’t have the heart to throw them out. 

Still, it’s her home and a knot in her chest seems to untangle when they step through the threshold. With a sudden burst of energy, she says, “I’ll make you some tea.”

She bustles into the kitchen before he can answer. In truth, she’s glad for the simple distraction of boiling water and finding tea mugs. 

She watches him from the kitchen awning as he pokes around the flat. He bends down to rifle through photographs and idly pokes at some of the Doctor’s leftover science experiments with his sonic screwdriver before making a disapproving grimace.

The kettle whistles and when she turns around, she finds him standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s leaning against the door, head titled to one side as he watches her. 

He speaks first. “How long were you and him...?”

“About 60 years,” she whispers and the tea mugs shake in her hands as she sets them down on the counter. “Must seem like a blink of an eye to you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He moves into the kitchen, stands in close to her. “It’s been a long time since I travelled with another person for that long.”

“I suppose it would be,” she says and steadies her hands long enough to pour the tea. She hands him a mug and he takes it, lifting it up in her direction before taking a sip. 

He grimaces. “Too much sugar.”

She smiles a patient smile. “Sorry, old habits. That’s how he liked—”

“I know,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed on her. “I remember.”

He sets the mug back down on the counter and then, folding his arms behind his back, ambles back into the living room, casually stooping down to peer at her things. 

Rose takes a sip of her own tea and finds herself wondering what he’s still doing here. She understands him well enough to know that this isn’t what he _does_. He doesn’t swoop back into his companion’s lives to check up on them—and especially not when they’re as old and as fragile as she is. 

But he can’t quite seem to be able to make himself turn around and leave either. Guilt? Curiosity? Or.... was he simply unable to ignore the part of him that still cared for her?

It’s a pleasant thought and as she takes her next sip of tea, she almost forgets to feel sad. 

He suddenly spins around and is in front of her again. Blimey, she forgot how quickly he could move when he was still young. 

“Kids? Grandkids?” he says. “If so, you should seriously consider putting up a few pictures of them.”

Rose can’t quite hold back her snort of laughter. “No, it was just us. We were never very keen to share each other with somebody else.”

“Ah,” he says, rocking back on his heels. 

“What about you? You must be travelling with someone.” She pauses. “Is she pretty?”

“Oh, she’s lovely. Amy—Amy Pond,” he says, never missing a beat. “I met her when she was eight. And then... she spent the next twelve years waiting for me to come back.”

There’s so much fondness in his voice that for a second Rose feels envious of this girl, this stranger she’s never met. She can suddenly sympathize with how Sarah Jane must have felt all those years ago. They get old while the Doctor moves on, finding someone younger, someone prettier, someone new to show the stars to. 

Her eyes settle on a picture behind his shoulder—it’s of the Doctor, _her_ Doctor, taken years ago, soon after they’d bought the flat. He’d been setting up their universe-broadcasting telly and had fallen asleep face down on the floor, forehead resting half on his hand and half on the sonic screwdriver. She’d snapped the picture in a fit of giggles—even human, even growing older, it was hard to catch the Doctor in such a deep and complete slumber. 

Her heart aches and she suddenly understands why the Doctor does what he does. If she could, she would travel the galaxy as well. She would do anything to run away from how much it hurts to stay in one place, haunted at every turn by the loss of the people she loves most. 

“That’s wonderful,” she finally says, and she means it. “Where is she now?”

“Honeymoon,” he says with a mysterious smile. “Hope they’re not in too much trouble without me.” Then he frowns and adds a disapproving, “Or too little.”

“A married couple,” she says. She takes a sip of tea and tries to ignore the ache in her joints. “Is that... difficult?”

His gaze snaps to hers and his voice is a little colder when he asks, “Why would it be difficult?”

“Seeing something you won’t let yourself have,” she whispers gently. “Every day.”

“They’re a good match.” Though his voice is mild, she can sense him putting a distance between them. As if looking for a way to change the subject, he points to a pile of rusted water pipes in the corner. “Those need a thermal responder before it can operate as a radar shield.”

Rose smiles sadly. “That’s the last thing he was working on before....”

“Oh,” he says. He takes a step back, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s okay,” says Rose and she means it. She _really_ means it. It’s okay to have him here—better than okay. It’s nice, even. The way he mumbles and walks and pokes at things is so very _him_ that it doesn’t matter what face he’s wearing. 

A few decades ago, she thought that the worst thing that could happen would be the Doctor regenerating. Now he seems so comforting, so _right_. He fills up the empty silence in the flat with his murmuring and shuffling and unending curiosity. 

Now she understands. There is something much worse than the Doctor regenerating—him not regenerating at all.

And she has to let him go.

He’s not _her_ Doctor—he’s just a version of the man she loves. And she doesn’t want this to be how he remembers her, withered and dying before his very eyes. 

“Doctor,” she says and she takes a step closer to him. She reaches for his hand and he goes silent, watching her with an expression that’s both fond and a little bit weary. “Do me a favour?”

He squeezes her hand between both of his and says. “What is it?

“May 13, 2036. There was a beautiful little park.... oh, about six blocks down the road?” she jerks her head towards the window. “Go there.”

His expression changes from concerned to curious in a split second. “What happens on May 13, 2036?”

She smiles mysteriously, but then falters, hit by a sudden chill. He notices immediately, the mirth fading from his face.

She can’t quite look him in the eyes. “I’m cold,” she whispers hoarsely. 

“Oh, Rose,” he whispers sadly. He rubs her hand between both of his and then says, “Come on, come sit down.”

He leads her over to the sofa and helps her sit, setting the cane against the edge. She’s shivering when he drapes a blanket over her shoulders and she takes it gratefully, sinking back against the cushions. In the sudden quiet of the flat, her breathing sounds loud and shallow. 

His hand cradles her face, stroking hair back from her forehead and fingers dipping behind her ear. She instinctively closes her eyes, drinking in the touch. 

Then he says, “Elevated heartbeat. Shallow breaths.” He pauses. “Have you considered an assisted living facility?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m not moving.” Sensing his disapproving stare, she adds, “I’m _not_. I just need some rest, that’s all I need.”

His hand leaves her face and she reaches out to grab it. She opens her eyes, finding him staring at her with a wide and helpless gaze. 

She swallows and says, “May 13, 2036.”

He hesitates for a moment and then leans in again, framing her face with both of his hands. “Okay, Rose Tyler. I’ll go. For you.”

She stares into his eyes. “Thank you.”

His thumbs sweep over her cheeks, eyes crinkling with worry. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah,” she lies even as one tear leaks out of her eye and trickles down her cheek. It catches on his thumb and he smoothes it away. She takes a breath. “Tony still comes by every week to check up on me, yeah? And Torchwood calls sometimes asking for a consult.” She manages a smile. “Not quite a relic of the past yet, am I?”

He smiles fondly at her and then presses his forehead against hers for a moment. “He’d want you to go on, Rose. To live.”

She closes her eyes and remembers _Have a fantastic life, Rose, do that for me_. She thinks it’s all a bit rich coming from a man who couldn’t bear to watch her grow old and leave him. 

But he presses his lips to her dry forehead and she swallows back her retorts. If there’s one thing she’s learned about the Doctor, he’s very, very good at giving advice to others that he’s never bothered to follow himself.

She curls up in the sofa, tugging the blanket up to her chin. Forcing her eyes open, she finds the Doctor on his feet, awkwardly shifting from one side to the other. A part of her wants to reach for him again and beg him not to leave, to just stay a little bit longer. 

But he would never stay forever, and _never_ for the end, and the longer he stays, the worse it will be when she’s on her own again. 

She breathes out a sigh and closes her eyes again, burrowing into the cushions. After a moment, her breathing evens out, sleep beckoning her downward. 

From somewhere far away, she hears the soft tapping of receding footsteps and then the squeak of the door as it opens and shuts. 

***

May 13, 2036 is sunny and bright, warm for an English spring. The Doctor steps out of the TARDIS, eyes squinting into the sun. 

He swallows hard and then leans back against the TARDIS, head thunking back against the wood. He can still feel Rose’s hand in his—her skin light and dry like he would crush her if he held onto her too tightly. Try as he might, it’s the only image of her he can call up in his mind—Rose Tyler, hunched over her husband’s grave, barely strong enough to stand on her own. 

He marvels at the strength it must have taken for her to make that trip, week after week, month after month. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. When it comes to Rose, it feels like the only thing he ends up with in the end is the tragedy. 

Taking a deep breath, he forces his eyes open, setting his jaw. Rose sent him here for a reason and he’s determined to see it through. 

Six blocks down the road, she’d said. He sets off, his strides long and purposeful. The sounds of laughter and voices hit him first and he turns the corner to find a sweeping green park. There’s a white tent set up in the middle of the square and underneath there are fancy tablecloths draped over tables and extravagant bouquets of flowers spilling from the tent’s corners. Crowds of people mill in front and under the tent, laughing and chatting in groups. 

The Doctor moves towards the crowd and only stops when a large man with biceps the size of a small planet steps in his way. 

“Invitation only,” growls the security guard. He places one large hand on the Doctor’s chest. “If you’re from the tabloids, you can move right along.”

The Doctor stops, looks him in the eye, and then draws the psychic paper out of his pocket. “Invitation right here. VIP, in fact.” He taps the psychic paper and then smiles winningly at the security guard. 

The security guard takes a long look at the psychic paper and then nods, moving out of the way. “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

The security guard ushers him along and the Doctor straightens out the lapels of his jacket, murmuring a quiet “aha” under his breath. He’s only gone a few feet when he turns around, calling over his shoulder, “Just... ah... one question. What’s happening here, exactly?”

The security guard’s massive lip curls into an expression of disbelief. “The Tyler wedding reception, sir. Surely you’ve read the papers. CEO of Vitex getting married—”

The Doctor waves a hand, “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it thanks.” And then he pauses, the words sinking in. _Tyler wedding_. He smiles and shakes his head. Of all the things he’d been expecting...

He pushes through the crowd, eyes searching frantically for a blonde in a wedding dress. He grabs a glass of champagne off a nearby tray and then ducks into tent, fingers automatically loosening the bow-tie around his neck. 

His eyes comb restlessly around the tent before spotting the unmistakable ruffle of a very expensive wedding gown. His heart sinks. He’s never seen the bride before in his life. 

She has long dark hair, blue eyes, and is about Amy’s height. The man next to her is also a stranger—he’s young but already balding and shifts uncomfortably in his custom made tuxedo.

He knocks back the glass of champagne, mind working furiously. _Tyler wedding_ , the security guard had said. He’d been so _sure_.... how many Tyler Vitex CEOs could there possibly be in London?

And then it hits him. Tony. Tony Tyler. Rose’s younger brother Tony. 

His eyes jump over to the bride and groom again and then over them—to the rest of the wedding party. When he finds her, it feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He can tell instantly that she’s well into middle-age, but her hair is as thick and blonde as ever. It’s long, past her shoulders, like it had been when they’d first met. She looks good. Stunning. _Alive_. Gone is the cane she was holding in 2072. She’s standing upright, focused, like she can still chase a Weevil through half of London.

And next to her, hand slipped into hers, is a face that he would recognize anywhere. 

His own face. 

Older maybe, with a bit more grey that he ever had, but it was still him—that double he’d left behind with Rose all those years ago. 

For a long time, he simply watches them as if transfixed. He can see the tension in his double’s shoulder, sense the other Doctor’s impatience as he glances longingly at the food table and then into the rest of the park. But all it takes to settle him is one touch from Rose or her chin on his shoulder. 

It’s only when the rest of the guests migrate into the tent that he realizes how much he’s been staring. He glances down at himself, belatedly realizing that he is certainly _not_ dressed appropriately for a wedding. He dodges around the guests, ignoring enquiries about the seating plan (“But Uncle Charles said that this was _my_ table,” demands one woman that he brushes shoulders with) before his gaze lands on one of the gaudy and overflowing flower displays. He heads towards it, keeping his head down so as not to attract attention. Once there, he presses himself up against the folds of the tent, peeking out from behind the flowers. Up on the stage, Tony and his new wife sit at the head table, Rose and the other Doctor at her elbow.

Next an army of waiters descend on the tables, each of them carrying a plate piled with a colourful mêlée that the Doctor suspects he would need the TARDIS science lab to help identify. He idly picks at a loose string on his cuff and tries not to fidget. Why didn’t he remember this much pomp and ceremony at Amy and Rory’s wedding? Oh, right, he’d shown up dramatically in the middle with the TARDIS. He could try that again, couldn’t he? It would certainly make things memorable—and that was the point with a wedding, wasn’t it? 

But then Rose rises to her feet, clearing her throat nervously, fingers tugging at her earrings and calling for attention. She glances at the Doctor next to her who gives her a wide smile and then she turns to face the guests, drawing in a deep breath. 

Behind the flower display, the Doctor stills, suddenly transfixed. 

“My mum died just over a year ago,” Rose says, voice shaking a little. “Dad had already been gone five years.” She pauses. “It’s just me and Tony now.” She turns to her brother, forcing a smile. “And I am so proud of him.” 

The crowd murmurs an echoing “aw.”

“And this wedding, how amazing is it?” She gives a shaky laugh. “Their faces are on our napkins.” There’s a chuckle of laughter from the crowd and Rose looks reassured. She stands up a bit straighter. “It’s the sort of wedding I reckon my mum wished I had—” she glances at her Doctor and smiles, “—and I know that wherever she is right now, she approves.” 

The crowd laughs again and Rose turns a beaming smile on Tony. “But a wedding isn’t everything, no matter how amazing the food is. It’s what comes after that matters. And you two are going to be so happy together.” She raises her glass. “To Tony and Rebecca!”

The crowd raises their glasses in response. “To Tony and Rebecca!!”

They drink and Rose sits down, looking a little bit flustered and a little proud. The Doctor watches her for a few more moments, smile tugging at his mouth. 

The army of waiters swarm back out with yet _another_ unidentifiable course. The Doctor yawns. Widely. 

And then he spots it—the unmistakable sight of a band slipping in from the back of the tent. The Doctor grins and backs away before slipping out under the tent. There, he sets back out for the TARDIS. 

He has a tuxedo to put on. After all, the dancing is his favourite part. 

***

When he comes back, he finds the party in full swing. With most of the guests dancing, it’s easier for him to slip around without drawing any stares. Barely breaking his stride, he grabs a canapé and a champagne glass off a moving tray. He pops the canapé into his mouth and washes it down with the champagne

He waves to Tony from across the dance floor and after hesitating a moment, Tony bemusedly waves back. Breaking eye contact, the Doctor quickly surveys the dance floor. No—no-- _blonde_ but not _quite_ the right shade, definitely no, ah—and finds them dancing in the corner, conveniently by one of the hideous flower displays. 

He sets out after them, digging through his pockets. He finds a Swiss army knife, an orange juice box, one sock (he was always losing pairs to the washing, dratted thing), and finally a legal pad. He pulls it out just as he reaches them and leans down to inspect the flower display, doing his best to look very busy and important and not at all like he is trying to hear every word of their conversation. 

Holding the legal pad in front of his face, he cautiously peers out between the flowers. They’re swaying slowly. Rose’s head is nestled against his shoulder, a contented smile on her face. 

After a moment, she says, “You made it through the whole wedding without running off once. So come on then, what did really you think?”

“Oh, it was... that... it was lovely.” There’s a pause. “Your speech was particularly inspired. And the ceremony. It was so....”

“— _long_ ,” Rose finishes. They share a quiet laugh and Rose snuggles into him again. “I suppose Rebecca wanted the best money could buy. And people say _you’re_ the gold-digger...”

“Come on now.” He taps her on the nose. “None of that. 

Rose sighs, but her next words are light, “I think my favourite was when old Misses Jones planted a kiss on you.”

There’s a smug “ha” and then, “She fancies me.”

“You think the butcher around the corner fancies you.”

“He does!” he drops his voice. “He checked out my backside.”

“That’s just good taste.”

“Not bad for a man in his early 1000s, is it?”

There’s a snort of laughter and then they trail off into silence. Frowning, the Doctor pokes his head up from behind the flowers. Ah, right—they’re kissing. He stares at them unabashedly, head cocking to the side as he studies them. He feels a wave of something that could be longing. They look right together. Like they fit. Like two people who know each other very well. 

The other Doctor breaks the kiss with a soft, “Rose.”

She looks up at him. “What is it?”

“We got married in a bog,” he says quietly. “In the _rain_. It wasn’t... it wasn’t a wedding like this.”

She smiles gently and then kisses him on the cheek. “No,” she says. “It was perfect.”

His eyes go all soft and he smiles back at her. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Then, clearing her throat, she takes a step back. “I could do with a drink. You?” He nods and she squeezes his hand. “Kay, be right back.”

The Doctor shifts from behind his hiding place, slipping the legal pad back into his jacket pocket. He turns to watch Rose gingerly make her way through the dance floor—and it’s not long before she’s accosted by Tony and Rebecca, asking her to stand in for photographs. 

As he watches her, a warm feeling builds in his chest. For the first time, he lets himself consider something he never really accepted before—Rose is _happy_. Or, at least, she _was_ happy. She had an entire life of love and happiness and horrid Tyler family celebrations. 

That’s why she had wanted him to come here. So he could see that she’d lived a long and happy life. He might have stumbled across her during her final chapter, but it was only one of many. 

“Ahem.”

He jumps, banging into the flowers and nearly sending them toppling across the floor. Rushing to steady them with one hand, he twists his neck around and looks up. His eyes land on the face of a man he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

“Wow, blimey, look at you!” he says. He disentangles from the flowers and leans in closer. “You’ve gone all grey. And your eyes are sort of...” he waves a hand at his other self, “...all... crinkled.”

The other man stares back at him. “You’ve got a bow-tie.”

His hand automatically goes to the offending bow-tie and he pats it once before dropping his arm back to his side. “I love the bow-tie. Bow-ties are cool.” 

The other Doctor rolls his eyes and then folds his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” He shrinks back a little as the other man glares down at him. He claps his hands together and then raises his eyebrows. “Not that I’m checking up on you. Well I suppose I _am_ checking up on you, but there’s no warranty or anything. You can’t have it back.” He pauses. “The TARDIS, I mean. You can’t have her back.” He pauses again, but his other self is still glaring down at him, looking irritated and annoyed and just a little bit worried. “Canapé?” he suggests after a moment. “They’re really quite good.”

“You can’t just... just _pop_ in from another universe,” snaps the other man. “Do you have any idea how fragile the walls have been since Davros tried to use the reality bomb. One wrong turn and—”

“Now that’s quite the tone,” interrupts the Doctor. He reaches out and pats the other Doctor on the shoulder as a sign of camaraderie—and hastily withdraws his hand when the other man clenches his jaw. Sighing, he turns serious and says, “I was curious.”

The other man raises his eyebrows. “Curious?”

“There was a way through and I took it.” He squints off across the tent and finds Rose next to her brother, dutifully hugging and kissing the guests as they come up to her. His heart gives a slow, painful tug when he thinks of how he left her. Alone. Curled under that blanket. Too tired to do anything but sleep. He turns back to the other Doctor. “....and here you are.”

“You miss her,” says the other man heavily. Some of the irritation and hostility seems to leave him and he slumps his shoulders, suddenly looking resigned. 

“Yes—no, I mean... yes, of course I do, but not.... like.... that...” he finishes lamely. Clearing his throat, he waves a hand at the other man. “But look at you two here! Living a life. Brilliant.” 

“I suppose it is, yeah,” says the other Doctor slowly. He rubs at the back of his neck and then adds, “Did you want to... talk to her?”

The worry is back in his eyes again and the Doctor smiles, shaking his head. “You go on,” he says, jerking his head in Rose’s direction. “Time I went back anyway.”

The other man relaxes. Slightly. “It doesn’t sound like me, making a trip to check up on an old friend.”

He meets the other man’s gaze. “Maybe I’m growing more sentimental in my old age.” He pauses and adds, quietly, “It’s a... favour. For an old friend.”

The other Doctor regards him for a long moment. “An old friend?”

He peers over the other man’s shoulder and doesn’t answer. _One day you will die and leave her broken-hearted_ doesn’t seem like the most charitable of responses. 

Finally the other Doctor sighs and says, “How is she? The TARDIS?”

The Doctor feels a stab of sympathy at the obvious longing in the other man’s voice. It must have been... what? At least twenty-five years since he’d had the TARDIS in his head? Rose or not, it would be almost unbearable.

“She’s good. She’s blue.” He pauses. “Well she’s always blue, but now she’s... more blue.”

“Right,” says the other man. He regards the Doctor for another moment. “You should get back. I remember how hard it was on her, being in this universe.”

The Doctor nods, resigned. “Just answer one thing?”

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

The other Doctor turns to look at Rose, smile tugging at his mouth. He idly fiddles with his own wedding ring and then whispers, “We are, yeah.”

“That’s good,” he whispers. He touches the other man’s shoulder—lets his hand rest there for a moment. “That’s what I wanted.”

Before he can say anything else, the Doctor draws his back and hurriedly slips away, out from under the flaps of the tent. He can feel the other man’s eyes on his back, but the tent whooshes closed behind him. There, he hesitates for a second and then, not quite able to deny himself a final look, bends down and peeps back in. 

The other Doctor crosses the room to Rose, dodging waiters and waitresses, canapé plates, and senior couples. When he reaches her, she beams a wide, grateful smile and then slips her hand into his. Together, they turn to face the onslaught of guests and well-wishers. 

He had done the right thing, back there on the beach. Oh, he’d known it at the time, of course. He’d never really, seriously thought there could possibly be another solution—but it had never really _felt_ right before. Not like this. 

He turns away, curling his hand into a fist. He can still feel the ghost of Rose’s paper thin hand in his, but it’s different—more like a distant memory than reality. 

He’d come into the story at the end but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still enjoy the rest of it.


End file.
